


Where the moss slowly grows

by ladyofthesilent



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombies, Angst, Episode: s05e04 The End, F/M, First Time, Supernatural AU: Croatoan/End'verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-10
Updated: 2012-02-10
Packaged: 2017-10-30 21:36:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/336421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyofthesilent/pseuds/ladyofthesilent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Ellen dies, Jo and Castiel seek comfort with each other for all the wrong reasons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where the moss slowly grows

**Author's Note:**

> This is kind of a writing exercise for a zombie-verse I am planning to create. It’s loosely based on the events of 5x04 “The End” and heavily inspired by the scenario drawn in “The Walking Dead”. However, it’s not really a crossover or even a fusion-fic, but rather an AU of an AU, set after 5x21 when Cas wakes in the hospital and realizes he's as good as human. In “my” verse, Jo and Ellen didn’t die in 5x10, and Sam never said yes to Lucifer, but the Croatoan outbreak still happened while Cas was unconscious. He manages to find Dean, who, along with Sam, Bobby, Ellen, Jo, and others is trying to stay clear of the Croats and the military. The fic (which will be about 5 chapters, for a start) is supposed to follow the main characters through their journey to Camp Chitaqua.
> 
> This particular piece of het-smut is set after Ellen was bitten by a Croat and asked Dean to kill her before the virus would take over. To be honest, I was more than a little disturbed by how easy I found it to write Jo/Cas …

It's late afternoon when he finds her, sitting on a barren trunk at the edge of the forest. He assumes she’s cleaning the rifle draped across her lap, but when he takes a closer look, it’s just her staring into nothingness while shifting the old sawed-off from side to side. He checks for tears, but doesn’t find any. Her eyes are the same clear brown as always, neither wet nor clouded. Just empty.  


“Hey,” he says, wondering why it sounds so horribly wrong. He doesn’t expect her to talk about what happened this morning. About her mother’s inevitable choice, and Dean, and the sound of a single gunshot still ringing in their ears.

Jo looks up, but an eternity passes until a spark of recognition spreads across her features. Her chapped lips part as if she wants to say something, maybe tell him to fuck off, but nothing comes out. A gleam of golden sunlight reflects in the metal of the gun when she puts the action back together with a swift movement of her well-practiced hands. Her head snaps round and then, suddenly, she’s gone, disappeared amidst the scrubs.

“Jo, wait!”

He doesn’t really think about anything when he rushes after her, just the fact she’s not okay, and that it’s going to get dark, and that there are still Croats out there. Twigs and thorns scratch across his naked arms, but the ignores the pain and follows her deeper into the woods, struggling to keep sight of her dark blue t-shirt through the narrowing branches. He almost falls when he trips over a protruding root, but catches himself just in time to stumble right onto a clearing.

Sunlight filters through the treetops and renders the moss-covered ground an almost otherworldly green. It’s a magical place, a majestic reminder of the days when creation was still young and the angels were in awe of their father’s grand achievement. He may or may not have stood there with Balthazar, right on the threshold between worlds, wondering what it would be like to cross over and feel the ground beneath their feet, the sun on their skin and the soft prickling of the very first rainfall. They were naïve then, he realizes, beings of an ethereal innocence he no longer calls his own. He’s even forgotten how to miss it.

He knows Jo is waiting for him before he actually sees her. She looks up, staring at him with an intensity he finds it hard to place, so he focuses on the gun instead. Her hand loosens its grip on the handle and the rifle falls to the ground with a soft thud. Suddenly, he becomes very much aware of his body, sweaty from the heated chase through the forest. He can feel Dean’s old grey t-shirt sticking to his back, loses himself in the deafening sound of his heavy breathing. And then they are reaching out for each other, grabbling and tugging at each other’s clothes until Jo’s hands are in his hair, locking their faces while mouths tangle in a heated clash of teeth and tongue.

It’s nothing like the drunken kiss he shared with Dean down by the lake, but still exactly what they both need to feel just now. It’s neither a good kiss nor a right one; it’s just necessary. His dazzled mind has barely time to register how wrong he was about this. How humans need to feel and touch and hurt each other, because that’s what being alive is all about. He’s alive now, he realizes, and so is Jo. And because it is so easily forgotten with everyone else around them dying, they cannot help but hold on to each other until they both stumble to the ground.

Somewhere deep down, he still knows that he shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be taking advantage of her grief and confusion, but her hands are warm on his face, and her breasts soft against his chest, and _goddammit_ , he’s just a man and around them, the world is ending. He rolls her over so he’s on top, eyes locking with hers, seeking permission, but she evades his gaze and pulls him down. She tastes like salt and whiskey, and when he buries his hands in her hair, he feels they’re no longer soft, but a tangled mess of locks and blood and twigs. He’s no longer an angel, and there’s no Jimmy claiming ownership of this body anymore. So he lets it happen, buries himself in the embrace that soon becomes a dirty mass of limbs and mouths, of bodies melting together until there’s not a single space left between them.

They move against each other hurriedly, tug at each other’s hair and clothes, and then she fumbles with the belt of his jeans. He tries to help, but his hands are shaking and she bats them away. ‘Last chance,’ a voice tells him when she shoves her shorts and panties down her hips, but it fades away unheard. And then, his brain is no longer capable of following the train of events, not with her hand on his cock and the way her warmth encircles him like a suffocating blanket.

His body remembers, but Castiel doesn’t. He’s never possessed more than a theoretical knowledge of sex, and it overwhelms him in ways he hadn’t thought possible. He gasps and breaks away, eyes wide with shock. He opens his mouth to say something, maybe that this is wrong and not something they should want with each other, but Jo just turns her head and pulls at his neck until his face is buried flat against her throat. She swallows what can only be a sob, the blood pounding through her veins while she says “please”, and it occurs to him with sickening clarity that it is not him she craves, never has been and never will be. He doesn’t know why she chose him, maybe because he was there, but there’s also the disquieting feeling that it is because he knows.

Because _this_ is something they share.

“Just … move,” she whispers, thrusting up against him until he finally gets it. He doesn’t know how to go slow, and she urges him on, with her legs wrapped around his middle and her fingers trailing patterns across his sweat-slicked back. Her mouth whispers words of encouragement, strange and foreign to his ears, and suddenly, it all becomes too much. He’s burning with something so raw and painful he cannot help but angle his face until his lips find the corner of her mouth. They kiss again, hard and without finesse, but her hips are meeting his in a frantic pace now and he feels his insides coiling tight.

“It’s ok,” he hears her say, soft, almost apologetic, “just let go.”

She presses him close, nails scraping his shoulder blades, and suddenly, he’s sinking deeper, pushing _in_ _and in and in_. The ground is hard and his knees start to ache, but there’s already trails of sparkling color behind his eyelids, and when he comes, it’s without a sound and an emptiness of mind that will make him wonder if that’s what falling felt like.

When it’s over, he wants to say something, but has no words. He wants to hold her close, offer comfort other than _this_ , but it feels just wrong to touch her now, not after they’ve overstepped this unspoken boundary of physical contact.

She pulls her shorts up and grabs her gun, something unsettling about the way she avoids his gaze. He instinctively understands, but doesn’t know how to react. He should feel guilty, he knows, but the only thing he feels is emptiness and something new, something about Jo’s face stark against the soft green moss.

He’s not sure he likes it.


End file.
